The Death of an Irish Lover (16 page)

“Perhaps—I don’t know. She cooks every Thursday on the chef’s day off.”

“And Moran came in on Thursdays?”

“Could be. It’s usually slow, and he could speak a bit of Flemish. He’d studied for the priesthood with some Belgian order, don’t you know.”

“Were your wife and he linked, romantically?”

“What? Are you daft, man? Sylvie’s a big, full woman—you saw her yourself—and Moran was a wee fella and rather…effeminate and bookish, if you know what I mean. Never married and not a tale heard tell about him and a woman. You know, sexually.”

“What about his involvement with Gertie McGurk—she had to sue his estate for the twenty-four thousand quid he left her?”

“That may be true. It was in all the papers, and certainly they went places together. But I’ll tell you this—I’ll bet my last farthing that Tony Moran never so much as kissed any of the women he looked after. Pubs weren’t his style, nor the company of men. He was just…a nancy boy who preferred nancies, not boys.”

A quaint term, McGarr thought, but he had known
men who had enjoyed the company of women without having to know them sexually. At the same time, he knew rather effeminate men who were very much interested in women and women in them.

“Let’s ring up your wife in Belgium.”

“Well—I’m not sure she’ll be home. The mother’s in hospital, as I said.”

“Then, we’ll reach her there.”

“But—”

“You don’t know the name of the hospital?”

Tallon shook his head.

“Then, we’ll just have to phone the police and have them find her.”

When Tallon opened his mouth to object, McGarr added, “Not to worry—I speak the language.”

“Flemish?”

“French. Your wife speaks that, too, I trust. Was she ever a blond?”

Glumly, his head lowered, Tallon passed out the door in front of McGarr. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Why don’t we use the phone in your quarters?”

Tallon stopped and turned to McGarr. “Why?”

“Well, having seen how the ‘wife’ lives, I’m curious to see where you hang your hat.”

Which was in the attic on what amounted to a fourth floor. But, given the steeply sloping roof of the building, it was a vast space that Tallon had furnished in a field-and-stream motif, with paintings and drawings of shooting and fishing scenes.

There were also photographs of him and his “missus” with a number of fishing and hunting parties, the fish and game spread out at their feet, shotguns slung over their forearms.

“The wife hunts?”

“Of course—she prefers cooking game. It’s what we’re noted for.”

Overhead in one room Tallon had arrayed in racks perhaps ten dozen fishing rods of various sizes and weights for different sorts of lakes and streams.

In another room that had no ceiling apart from the towering roof of the inn, stuffed and mounted heads of wild animals had been hung from the beams as trophies.

A large double-fronted gun case built of butter-colored deal stood in the center of that room. The inventory of shotguns was impressive; many were by Purdy—handmade with engraved plates, checkered stocks, and hefty price tags. “These your guns?”

“Some of them. The rest are Sylvie’s, whose father was hunt master to the King of Belgium.”

Other guns included high-caliber big-game rifles, some with sighting scopes.

Along the walls were cataloged wading boots, rubberized macs, Wellies, and wide-brimmed rain hats with chin straps.

“We tell first-time guests—just bring yourselves—we’ll supply the rest.”

“This phone the same number as the inn?”

“One of them.”

“The number that paged Ellen Finn?”

Tallon nodded.

McGarr let the phone ring at the number in Belgium for the longest time, but there was no answer. Calling the police in Bruge, he was told that Sylvie Zeebruge’s mother, Sophie, could be at any one of a number of hospitals in the large metropolitan area.

“Fact is,” the desk officer there went on, “nowadays people go to any hospital they choose, anywhere in the country.”

“Would it be possible to obtain a list of all Belgian hospitals?”

“I have one right here.”

“Could you fax it to me?”

“Of course.”

McGarr gave the fax number of his office in Dublin, then rang up and told the desk man there to begin checking for a Sophie Zeebruge.

“Begin in the Bruges area, but I want you to locate this woman and see if her daughter, Sylvie, is at her side. And if you reach Sylvie, ask her to contact my cell phone immediately.”

When McGarr rang off, he glanced up to find Tallon staring out a window at the darkened street, as though lost in thought.

Hugh Ward wondered if every country chemist shop had bells on its doors.

Certainly, the one-man operations at crossroads towns and country villages did, and he had been listening to the jangle of bells all morning and much of the afternoon, when he hadn’t been driving. Chemist shops were few and far between in rural Ireland.

The impetus of Ward’s quest was singular: Thunderbolt condoms. In all his twenty-plus years as a combatant in the “War-d”—was his metaphor—between the sexes, he had never happened upon Thunderbolt condoms, and he imagined that they were an off brand not sold in Ireland.

Further—given their point of origin in the States—the items had probably been brought back by some enterprising chemist or a relative, because of the difference in price or the evocative name that Bernie McKeon so enjoyed.

In any case, the Thunderbolt condoms found in Ellen Finn’s purse had been—like the photos she had taken of the Frakes and the two thousand quid—an afterthought by the murderer or murderers, he was certain.

And over the top, which was always the case with those who felt their own guilt so thoroughly that no simple remedy could do. They had to cover up the crime totally.

So, between the 3:00
P.M
. probable death of Pascal Burke and the 6:00
P.M
. shooting of Ellen Finn, one of them had driven out to a chemist and purchased condoms to “salt” in Ellen Finn’s purse and flat. As Noreen and Ruth had pointed out, a pregnant woman—who was not promiscuous—had no real need for condoms.

“Hello—anybody about?” Ward had to call out. In spite of the bell, nobody had appeared, and he could smell the evening tea being prepared beyond a curtained passageway at the back of the shop. There was a decidedly spicy edge to the odor.

Finding yet another bell on the counter, he rang that insistently, and at length a dark-skinned man appeared, wearing a cardigan jumper over a white shirt and tie and octagon eyeglasses with wire bows. A name tag said, “S. Gupta, M.S., Chemist.”

“How may I help you, sir?”

Ward produced his photo ID and the packet of Thunderbolt condoms, explaining, “I’m with the Serious Crimes Unit, and I’m here on a matter of utmost importance. Do you sell these?”

Gupta reached for Ward’s ID, rather than the packet. After studying it closely, he glanced up, “You’re sure you’re not a tax man?” His voice, while cultivated, carried a slight East Indian inflection.

Ward shook his head. “Murder Squad. We’re investigating the three deaths in Leixleap. And this piece of evidence could prove crucial.”

The chemist’s eyes flashed on the packet of condoms, before he bent at the waist and said, “If you’ll step around here, Superintendent.”

A large drawer was filled with different brands of condoms. “I keep them here because, after all, this
is
Ireland.”

Where old attitudes linger, went unsaid; and yet, only two decades earlier an East Indian chemist would probably not have been able to make a go of a small shop in rural Ireland, because of Irish attitudes. Credit the recent prosperity that was changing the country.

“One of my relatives brought me a gross of Thunderbolt condoms from the States when he visited on holiday last summer,” Gupta continued. “He mistakenly thought Ireland still banned birth-control devices, and selling condoms would give me an edge, so to speak.

“So, being that they’re truly superior condoms—finely textured but strong, I’m told, and the profit margin cannot be beaten—we sell them as brand X, whenever somebody comes into the shop asking for condoms and not naming a brand.”

“And when last did you sell some?”

“Me?” He had to think. “About two weeks ago, I believe.”

“What about Friday between three and six in the afternoon?”

“I’m afraid I was golfing. My daughter was tending the shop.”

“Can I speak to her? As I said, it’s quite important.”

“Surely.” Gupta stepped behind the curtains and opened a door.

Ward could hear the telly and the sounds of dishes being washed.

“Shila!” he called out. “Could you come out here for a moment?”

After a while a girl appeared who could not be more than fourteen or fifteen, but graceful in her movements and pretty, with bright dark eyes and well-formed mouth.

A flurry of Punjabi was spoken by her father, which caused her to look down, as though embarrassed.

“Shila is bashful. Especially about such matters, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve explained to her that all such functions are human functions and part of the purview of our activity here in this shop,” her father explained didactically, one finger raised in front of his nose.

The girl then said something and walked back behind the curtains.

“Pardon me, Superintendent. But—”

More talk transpired in the shadows there, before Gupta emerged. “Shila speaks English better than me—I mean, I—but I think it has something to do with her age.

“Anyhow—she sold two packets of Thunderbolt condoms to a man on Friday afternoon just before teatime. He also wanted a lubricant and was in such a hurry that he left without his change, which was four pounds fifty-three pence. Shila put the money in an envelope, which is in the register, she says.”

Tapping a key, Gupta opened the machine, removed the coin tray and produced an envelope that said in precise script, “‘Change of customer, Friday afternoon, 5:15.’ We try to do everything legally here.”

“Can she describe this customer? What did he look
like? Big, tall, small, short, fat? Distinguishing marks? What was he wearing?”

Again Gupta stepped behind the curtain, and what sounded like a debate ensued, with the father’s tone becoming stern.

Back out, Gupta raised his palms, “Alas—she didn’t look at him. She says, she couldn’t. She was alone in the shop, he was a man, and it’s the one item that she has trouble…dealing with, if you can understand…?”

Ward nodded. “But anything—the way he spoke, the way he walked, an item of clothing—could be helpful.” An idea occurred to him. “What if I were to bring her a photo? Could she identify him from that?”

Yet again, the exchange occurred between daughter and father, who again appeared apologetically. “Maybe the photos will help her remember. She says she…blocked it out. It seemed to be to her a bad experience for both of them. He asked for them, she gave them to him, he slapped the money down and just left.”

“Did she go after him with the change?”

Gupta called over his shoulder. “Shila?”

“No—I was alone! I told you that!” The door to the living quarters was wrenched open and slammed shut.

“She’s that age,” Gupta tried to explain.

Ward nodded. “Do you have one of those disposable cameras? You know the type that you use once—”

“This way.” Gupta led Ward to his camera and film inventory.

Ruth Bresnahan was in the bedroom that Quintan and Ellen Finn had shared for the seven months of their short marriage, and she felt about as sad as she ever had in her life.

The bigger problem was: Ruth was not sure that the sadness, which weighed on her like a millstone, was caused by what had happened to a poor young married couple. Or what was happening to herself. And the very selfishness of the latter scenario, if true, would be enough to make Ruth rethink her life.

She had never been self-absorbed; she would not allow herself to become so now.

But all about her, on nearly every surface that she could see, were pictures of the two handsome young people together: before, during, and after marriage. Baby pictures, kid pictures, it even looked as though they had been playmates together before school and friends after they had left and become young adults.

In other words, they had been soul mates in addition to becoming love mates, and for the year that Ward and she had been apart, Ruth had been denied her soul mate.

Why? Because she had decided that she should forestall marriage and motherhood, which she had looked upon as a trap. What was it some German writer had said? “When your child is born, you are the dead one.”

And hadn’t her own mother confided, “You get married, you give birth, and it’s wonderful, having your own child. What we’re meant for. But taking care of others makes the years race by. Suddenly you’re old, your body is broken, and then you die.

“Ruthie—it’s the wise woman who puts that off as long as possible.”

But then, her mother—who was still very much alive—had married a much older man. Yet after her father had died, her mother suddenly had nobody but Ruth, who was 140 miles away in Dublin, pursuing her
career. In other words, she had nobody but a distant daughter.

Ruth sat on the bed and scanned all the undergarments she had assembled. On one side were the brassieres, thongs, merry widows, and other contraptions that she had taken from Gertrude McGurk’s room in the safe house that she shared with the brothers Frakes.

On the other side were similar items that she had found in the dresser in the Finns’ bedroom. And all were similar in most regards from size—38D cup, twenty-eight-inch waist, and “Long” in any of the wear that hung past the hips to where they were made, which was almost exclusively the UK or Ireland. The only difference was, two of the brassieres had underwire cups to lift the breasts in the tawdry way that so attracted men’s eyes.

Sex—Bresnahan decided—picking up a garter belt clustered with spikes and equipped with other straps for who-knew-what purpose—was so effing depressing. The problems it got people into. And yet sex couldn’t be denied. That much she knew.

Dropping the item back into the pile, Bresnahan rose from the bed and entered the toilet, where earlier she had dumped the dead couple’s laundry on the floor.

And among the collection was Ellen Finn’s choice in undergarments. Most were plain and made of cotton. Her bra size? It had varied, as her pregnancy wore on, but she had begun at 34C. In other words, petite. Small. When compared to Ruth herself or, say, Gertrude McGurk.

Ellen Finn’s knickers were small as well, and many of them were clean and bore regular creases from having been folded after being washed. In haste, the mur
derer or murderers had simply stuffed the clothes that they had pulled from the drawers of the dresser into the hamper, Ruth was convinced, before adding the more provocative items. They had assumed that the police would not think to look there.

Still in a funk, Bresnahan moved through the apartment to the door that separated it from Carson’s flat at the front of the building. It had been open when she arrived, as though Carson was now living in both areas.

Spartan was the term that sprang to mind, as Ruth scanned the table in the kitchen with its single chair, the bedroom with a cot, and the few changes of Leixleap Inn uniform clothes and one dress suit with its pair of plain black brogues grouped neatly under the hanger.

Everything spick-and-span. The two plates that he owned had been washed, dried, and put away. In the fridge was a bottle of milk, a butter dish, and a packet of tea. Nothing else, since Carson probably ate at the pub. If he ate.

The entire flat smacked of his solitary life spent largely in penal institutions. The one decoration was a framed snapshot of a young woman holding a baby. It sat in the middle of the kitchen table across from the chair.

But what it said to Bresnahan was plain—that even this hard man who had endured years of hardship and deprivation had a priority. His deceased daughter and his granddaughter.

And perhaps it was time for her to consider children for herself. With whom? Why, with her soul mate, of course.

But didn’t he already have a child and a half by another woman with whom he was also living?, she
could hear her friends asking incredulously when time came to announce her condition.

Yes, but that was his decision, she would reply. Mine was to have his baby.

And who knew—she only now realized closing the door to the mews apartment and turning to look out at the Shannon that was streaming mightily below her—she might already be pregnant.

Not feeling much like sex over the past year, she had abandoned taking the pill. And far be it from Hugh Ward—Daddy-O ex caliber—to wear a condom.

Nor would he tonight, she decided, trying to remember if it was today or yesterday that she was ovulating.

Either or, she would make sure she was covered.

Bernie McKeon decided that this assignment—the double murder and possibly three here in Leixleap—was his reward for having been dutiful over the years.

The office guy. The inside man. The interviewer (or “in-terror-gator,” as one barrister continually referred to McKeon in court).

Because, here in late afternoon he sat for the second day in a row at a crowded friendly noisy bar—which in his considered opinion was civilization at its best—shepherding a pleasant glow with no end of festivity in sight. Add to that, his sumptuous room in the inn was only a short…er, canter away.

The refrain:
“If that’s all there is…let’s keep on dancing,”
kept playing over in his head, and several times in the last few minutes he gave it voice.

“Did you hear the one about the man who asked his wife of fifty years if she would get married again, were he to die?” Benny Carson now asked the end of the bar
where he was holding forth, cigarette in one hand, glass in the other.

Peering over his spectacles, his pale blue eyes—the very color of the uniform jacket—were bright and gay. “‘Well, ducky,’ says her nibs, ‘I might feel the need for companionship, and you would want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?’

“‘Surely, certainly, most assuredly I’d want you to be happy,’ says he, ‘but would you let this person sleep in our bed?’

“‘Now, the bed’s brand spanking new and you know how much we paid for it. It would be a waste not to put it to good use.’

“A bit miffed, your man says, ‘So, if you’d get married after I died and you’d let your new husband sleep in our new bed, answer me this—would you let him use my golf clubs?’”

Carson paused to pull from the cigarette. “‘No, categorically not—I wouldn’t let him do that.’

“Cheered, your man asks, ‘And why, dear heart, would you not let him use me golf clubs?’